


Good Doggie No Bone

by EvilShtriga



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse, Bodily Fluids, Conditioning, Crying, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, HYDRA Trash Party, Humiliation, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, POV Second Person, Self-Control, Sleep Deprivation, clicker training, shock collar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-04-30 11:58:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5163011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilShtriga/pseuds/EvilShtriga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new HYDRA agent apparently has some dog training background, Rumlow is an evil bastard and Bucky's there just to obey and suffer for everyone's pleasure. </p><p>Heed the tags, this fic is trash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the tags. Proceed with caution and at your own risk. There's some pretty nasty stuff ahead.
> 
> You've been warned.

You sit on the floor, cross-legged, back straight and shoulders drawn down. Head still, arms extended in front of your chest, all muscles tense, but unmoving. You try to keep your eyes fixed on something, anything, but there’s nothing steady enough around you, nothing to mentally lean on.

There’s a wild rumble and a familiar kind of pain in your stomach, but you choose to ignore it. No, not choose. You don’t have a choice. It’s not like you can do anything to change it. All you can do is experience the feeling the way you experience any other element of your routine. Hunger is the whole point here, after all.

There’s also a man with you, the new handler who took over your mental exercises a few weeks ago and introduced new training techniques. They are totally different from what you were doing before, but you learned the rules quickly enough. Some aspects vaguely remind you of something you seem to have known once, but you can’t really put your finger on what it is, so you just let him guide you through new levels of the training.

And then, there’s the sausage you’re holding between your teeth as carefully as if it was a piece of very fragile glass, but also confidently enough not to drop it, regardless of what your next task will be. Regardless of the fact that you’re drooling like a fool and you don’t seem to be making much progress in eradicating this particular response.

But your task is just to hold still, time and again, fixing your body in one exact position and not letting it move an inch. Just as if you’re not a living creature but a monument, perfectly still, unaffected by anything that might be going on around you, yet somehow aware both of your surroundings and your body. You maintain the position for some time, but when your flesh and blood arm begins to tremble from the effort, you’re told to raise both arms and hold them up. The relief is only temporary and your body betrays you again.

The electric shock bites your neck immediately and you feel your jaw clench. There’s nothing you can do to stop your teeth from cracking the sausage.

This failure earns you a hard blow right in the face and the next thing you know is that you’re lying on the cold stone floor of the cell. The sausage is in pieces, some of them in your mouth. Theoretically, you could risk trying to swallow the tiniest ones, there’s a chance the handler wouldn’t notice. But that’s not an option. Your task is clear. You can’t eat anything unless you’re directly told to.

Your stomach rumbles again, sending another surge of pain through your body. The meat makes you drool even more, but you don’t dare even move your jaws right now. If you accidentally eat any part of the food, the punishment will be severe. You can’t let that happen, you want to earn your meal the way you should, the way you always do. You’ll eat when you try hard enough to succeed, and so far you haven’t. It means you’re bad and don’t deserve the reward just yet.

“Sit up,” you hear, and you jump to the former position, still holding the damaged sausage in your mouth. You only let your lower jaw drop when the handler says “Drop it.”

The handler lifts the sausage and breaks it in two. “Hold.” He puts both pieces back between your teeth so they stick out as much as possible and you have to take extra care not to drop them accidentally.

“Flat on your back.” You slowly lower yourself onto the floor. You can see a jar, probably filled with your handler’s favorite strawberry jam, and then feel cold glass on your forehead. The trainer applies some steady pressure to your shoulder, but you lie still. He hits your upper arm with a series of fast, though not very hard punches, but you do not respond.

Then he traces the line of your jaw with just one finger, and that’s what makes you flinch. The jar falls off your head, the electric shock hits you again, and you bite off parts of the sausage, but spit them out immediately, before you can be punished for what may have been an attempt to eat without direct order.

Then everything’s back in place, the sausage (or sausages at this point) between your teeth, the jar on your forehead. This time you’re prepared for the touch and you lie perfectly still while the handler lets his fingers roam all over your jaw and the exposed part of your throat below the shock collar. You let him stroke and ruffle your hair, but then he unexpectedly lays a hand on your stomach and this turns out to be too much.

The shock seems harsher than the last time. Not good. The handler’s getting impatient, you’re not doing good. There’s disgust written all over his face, but he decides to take a step back. The meat and the jar remain on the floor, this time you’re just lying down and forcing your body not to react to his touch.

_Click!_

A little rolled piece of bread – your reward for good behavior – is tossed your way and you sit up to gulp it down eagerly.

“Lie down again.” You do as you’re told. The handler repeats the procedure, he touches your shoulder, pokes your ribs, tickles your throat.

_Click!_

You get another bite of food and immediately lower your back on the ground again. The handler just shakes his head.

“Sit up.”

You do as you’re told. The handler stands behind you and crouches down. You don’t even have to try to look at him, you can hear his knees bend.

“Close your eyes.”

You press your eyelids together as tight as you can, not sure what to expect. A strike? A kick? Another electric shock?

The handler simply blindfolds you, wrapping a dark cloth around your head. You hear him walk around you, probably checking if your eyes are covered. He stops in front of you.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why?”

“I can’t see them.”

“What can you see, then?”

“Nothing. Darkness.”

“Good. Lie down.”

The floor seems colder than before, but that’s probably because, with your eyes locked in darkness, your other senses are sharpening. The handler walks up and stands right over you.

“On the count of three, I’ll drop something on you. Don’t move, no matter what it is or where it lands.”

You wait, not even trying to guess what he might use for this exercise, but getting ready for the impact.

“One.”

But is it going to be heavy? Painful? Sharp? Where will he drop it?

“Two.”

The air hisses a split second before something bounces off your chest and then rolls on the floor. It sounds like metal, and the place where it hit you actually hurts. But at least you didn’t move. You weren’t even surprised when the handler dropped it before he said “three.” You learned long ago you should stay alert all the time, always aware of what’s going on around, always ready to react or obey.

“Again. New object, on the count of three.”

You swallow hard, an unfamiliar fear slowly waking up somewhere in your chest.

“One.”

You have to calm down, you’re not supposed to give in to emotions.

“Two.”

Your heart beats faster than it should. You try to breathe slowly, but without drawing much attention to the fact. If the handler finds out about any unwanted reaction, you’ll be punished.

“Three.”

You’re almost panicking, but then the air is silent and you don’t feel anything hitting, not even touching you. You’re confused. Maybe you missed it?

“Four.”

Four? There was supposed to be a four?

“Five.”

You don’t know what to do, you’re barely able to think clearly at this point. You must have misunderstood the instructions, missed some important piece of information. You’re failing, you’ll be punished.

“Six.”

Something wraps around your throat and you can’t suppress the urge to fight it. You grab it with both hands and push it away before you realize you’ve just literally thrown your handler to the ground.

The electric shock hits you hard. It’s the worst it’s ever been. You scream in pain, not even trying to fight it, just squirming on the floor helplessly.

It stops and, after an eternity of agony, you just collapse, unable to move a single muscle.

You’re grabbed by the throat again and hauled in the air. Your back and head crash against the wall, but somehow you can’t reach the floor, your feet dangle miserably as you struggle for air, lungs screaming. Only this time you don’t dare even move your arms. It takes a lot of energy to control them now, but you know your only chance to wrench free is to actually not wrench.

“Try this once again,” the handler sneers through gritted teeth, “just once, and I will make you regret every single second of your sorry life. Really, truly regret, because trust me, you have no idea what that means just yet.”

He lets go. You hardly feel the floor as you hit it, all you know is that there’s air in your lungs again, and it’s both bliss and pain. You can’t hear him move around, the sound of your own breath is all you can focus on right now.

The kick comes as a surprise and you double over, fighting for air again.

“Sit up.”

You force yourself to obey, breathing heavily. Something cold touches the tip of your head. The jar again. You try to remain perfectly still, to calm down the wild heartbeat and breathing pattern. But you’re not given enough time, the hand that brushes against your throat sends you reeling.

The jar falls off your head, the handler catches it mid-air. The electric shock follows, but it seems like a little too much for you. You moan in pain and realize what you’ve done when it’s already too late. Because of course you know that current shouldn’t have been enough to make you show any weakness. And yet it was.

The punishment is another strike, this one straight in the face. Nothing unusual, in fact, it kind of helps you clear your mind and concentrate. Then the jar is back on your head, but the hand now clutches your nose, blocking the air. You automatically open your mouth to breathe, but the quietest “no” from the handler shuts it.

It’s not that bad at first and you try to calm down, to save your strength and oxygen for later. The jar, however, gives you a different focus. You’ve got to stay still – and you do, although your lungs scream for air sooner than they should, your throat feels tight and your heart pounds faster and faster as panic rises in your chest. You don’t even remember you were hungry a few minutes ago, lack of food is not a problem compared to lack of air.

In seconds you try to gasp without opening your mouth. You’re not sure if you’re trying to fight the handler or yourself. All you know is that you don’t really control your movements and the jar slips from your head, but the shock collar doesn’t bite you for it.

You don’t get it. You failed, the jar fell, you’re supposed to be punished. You expect, you even WANT to be punished. And yet you’re not. Logic suggests you might be punished later, but then, this handler never puts off punishment, he always strikes right away. The whole situation doesn’t make sense. Unless…

Keeping the jar on your head wasn’t the task. It was a distraction. The task is not to breathe. So if you hold your breath long enough, if you resist the urge to open your mouth or grab the handler’s hand and tear it away from your face, maybe you won’t be punished. Maybe you’ll even be rewarded.

You don’t know if you want to be rewarded. At the moment you just don’t want to be punished. Today’s session has already been quite abundant in punishment; you’re not sure how much more of it you can take. You’re usually better than today.

So you fight the most basic instinct that’s still left in you, muting out the little voice at the back of your mind that tries to tell you to open your mouth and breathe in, no matter the consequences. No, no, you can’t do that. You have to be good, you have to obey your handler. And, most of all, you cannot disobey a direct order.

The direct order was not to open your mouth. You won’t dare touch the handler again, so your nose is still blocked.

No way to breathe. _Breathe_ , screams your mind. _Breathe, breathe, breathe_.

Breathing is not allowed at the moment. You won’t let your body give in to its instincts, you won’t let it ruin everything for you.

And somehow you manage to contain all the desperate fight for air, all the primordial will to live. You bury it under pure stubbornness and desire to obey. You hold your breath until everything spins around and the darkness the blindfold locks you in becomes even darker, and swallows your senses, your thoughts, the pain in your lungs and your very consciousness.

When it spits you out, you’re all alone. The handler is gone, the blindfold is gone, the shock collar is gone. So is any piece of food.

You don’t FEEL your lungs anymore and it must mean everything’s all right and your breathing is normal. Your stomach feels tight and painful, but that’s not surprising. You’ve eaten maybe a handful of training snacks in the last three days. After all, hunger is essential in your new training schedule. You suppose you’re just not good enough at overcoming the weaknesses of your body. You flinch at certain kinds of touch, you lose strength and stamina without regular meals, you can’t withstand a few minutes of air deprivation. You must get better at these things, you must make progress.

But then, you weren’t punished at the end of the last session, were you? You quickly scan your body for any potential sources of pain or damage, but there’s nothing. Apart from the stomach, but that one is supposed to hurt because of the hunger, so that’s all right. You’re not even bound.

It looks like you actually succeeded and pleased the handler. You resisted the urge to breathe for long enough not to earn a punishment.

You sit up and look around. Apparently you’ve been moved to your regular holding cell. It’s much smaller than the training area, which consists of an entire huge wing with its own… _playground_. One outside, with running tracks and all kinds of obstacles, and one inside, with a gym and the… what did the previous handler call it? _Alcove_.

The cell is also warmer and more minimalistic. In fact, the entire equipment consists of an old rug that serves as your bed and a bucket that assumes the role of a toilet when it’s present. Because sometimes it’s taken away and returned after a few days. You don’t know if this is done on purpose or someone just forgets to get the thing back here. Not like it matters, though. It’s not for you to decide, after all, you should be grateful for having it at least from time to time. You should be grateful for not being made to piss the rug and sleep on it anymore.

But that was thanks to the techs who discovered that long exposure to urine affects the structure of the metal arm. From what you gathered, they told the Secretary, and he got furious. You got a new rug after that and was told to never ruin it, because there wouldn’t be another one. You’d have to sleep directly on the floor.

Well, you often do, because you’re either too tired or too hurting to crawl to your bed, or the rug disappears as mysteriously as the bucket.

But this time, both are here. It takes eight steps on all fours to reach the rug and collapse onto it. The bucket is in the opposite corner of the cell, fifteen paces away.

You lie thoughtlessly for some time, not even moving. Because what else is there for you to do?

After approximately thirty minutes, the dim light in the cell goes out, only to hit you with its full force fifteen minutes later. You curl into a ball, trying to control the shaking your body is starting to perform. You know what’s about to come, and it’s definitely not a good night’s sleep.

This time it starts after seven minutes. The distant rumble of a thunderstorm reiterates in the cell, trapped and magnified by the walls. Thunderstorms wouldn’t be that bad if they weren’t only the herald of the other sounds that explode in your cell and in your mind almost every night.

You never know what it’s going to be this night. In the past week you spent your nights listening to women shrieking in pain, the screeching of nails on a blackboard, the loudest drums on earth and irregular laughter that your mind interpreted as mocking. You have no idea what to expect today.

The thunderstorm sounds like it’s getting closer, the sound of thunders not a rumble anymore, but a crack of whiplash, louder and louder each time.

It’s kind of unsettling after fifteen minutes. The sound should have already changed into something more unpleasant for the ears, and yet all you can hear is the soft tapping of the rain and the thunders striking still at some apparent distance. Unless there’s a real storm outside and they’re just letting you hear it?

It doesn’t make sense, though. After another thirty minutes, your body has already relaxed and you feel like you might be falling asleep, the rain chanting a tender lullaby, the bolts harmless in the safe cell. The rug is almost soft, the whole place almost cozy. You’re on the verge of drifting off into sleep when a thunder strikes really close to your base, the sound almost blowing out your ears.

And then, a moment later, your whole world flashes with electroshock.

You jump to your feet, startled. What the fuck?! How can a bolt strike you if you’re inside of a very secure building that surely has more grounding than an average town? And shouldn’t the charge be able to kill you?

The metal arm still works and your mind is racing, desperately looking for a logical explanation. But either you’re dumb or there’s no way to explain this. It just. Doesn’t. Make. Sense.

Maybe you just imagined it? Dreamed it? You don’t dream much and if you do, it means you’ll be put back in the cryo freeze soon, but maybe it’s time already? Should you report what just happened to the handler when he turns up?

Cautiously, you lower yourself back onto the rug. You lie down on your right side, facing the door. The rain doesn’t sound soothing this time, but there’s no thunder for a long time, and you’re almost asleep again.

That’s when it strikes again. The cracking sound and the instant electrocution whose source you can’t even identify. You’re back on your feet, panting and shaking, your mind reeling. It’s real. It’s fucking real. And it hurts.

But you can put up with pain. You’ve been through worse. Physical pain can be overcome, quite easily, in fact, if you have a task to complete, a mission to focus on.

The problem is that you were given no instruction. You’ve learned that the sounds they play at night are meant to disturb your sleep. It’s not pleasant, but it must be necessary for you, otherwise it wouldn’t happen. But this? This is something new and you have no idea what you’re supposed to do. Hell, you don’t even know if you’re supposed to do anything at all. Is this some kind of a test? Some training session pattern you should be able to recognize and follow?

Your mind gives you nothing, absolutely no clue. Nothing that would at least vaguely resemble this new exercise. You feel panic waking somewhere at the bottom of your chest. You don’t lie down again and the next thunder and the shock that follows it throw you on the floor. The lights go out and you’re left in absolute darkness, listening to the rain and waiting for the next surge of pain.

It comes soon, and then another one.

You jump up again and run around the cell, touching, pushing and punching every square inch of every surface you can reach, you throw the rug around and spill the contents of the bucket. If it’s a test, there might be a switch somewhere in the cell, and it doesn’t have to be a switch per se.

But you run out of options all too soon and the thunders still crack like whips, followed by electric shocks. You feel some weird kind of weakness creep into your body. It makes you collapse on the floor. Your heartbeat is ridiculously fast, your thoughts unclear, disorderly and unfocused. You don’t rise again, you just let your body tremble in fear and pain, desperately trying to find some pattern, but every attempt to calculate the frequency of these strikes leads to the same conclusion: it’s random.

That leaves you no choice but to endure. You let the night run its course, only briefly dozing off several times before the next thunder shakes you awake. And then, just like that, the sounds stop, the lights go out, the electric shock never hits you again.

It takes you some time to calm down and fall asleep, but then you’re not given the chance to rest properly. A kick in the ribs shoves you back into the real world and you find yourself staring into the face of one of your handlers.

“Get up,” he barks and you obey immediately. He hands you a bottle with transparent liquid. “Drink this.”

You gulp down all of it and the liquid turns out to be just water. Thankfully. Nothing painful this time. Good start of a good day, you assume. After all, it’s been a while since you last drank something before you got unbearably thirsty.

But then everything starts to feel off and you know it is no ordinary day. You’re not sure you like the idea.

The handler points to the bucket in the corner of the cell and commands you to pick it up. You do.

Then you both march out, joined by a group of guards that surround you, guns in hand.

 

The training ground is empty save for you, your handler and a few other men. You only recognize one of them, though you don’t remember his real name. Maybe you never knew it, maybe he’s only been referred to as something else around you. You don’t like the look he gives you, much less the little smile that curves his lips.

He approaches you and you glance at the handler for instructions.

“Mr. Rumlow will be your handler today. Do as he says.”

So that’s his name. You don’t think you’ve heard it before, but you make sure to engrave it in your mind. Somehow you feel it won’t be the last time you meet him.

“Yes, sir.”

Rumlow hits you hard in the face.

“I didn’t order you to speak.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo obviously this is very much inspired by modern dog training and, of course, this is NOT a proper way to train a dog (much less to treat a human being, but then, that's what you're here for, so I won't pretend to be sorry about what I wrote).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me remind you this is trash. Proceed with caution; this chapter overflows with urine, not only in terms of excretion.

The first thing he does order you to do is drink more water. Your usual handler’s gone by the time you empty another bottle. You’re left alone with Rumlow and his two companions.

“Put your bucket over there, next to the trashcan. And remember, this is training area, we must keep it clean or you’ll clean it with your mouth. This means you only piss into your bucket.”

You nod in response. Most of these rules are obvious and you’re not sure why your temporary (is he?) handler even mentioned them, but then, he can remind you of any rules he wants, he can also change them as he sees fit, so you give no thought to that anymore.

“Drink some more.” He tosses you another bottle of water and you pour it all into your throat. Rumlow looks pleased when you’re done with that.

“Now you run. Ten laps on the track. Go.”

You run. You’re not sure how fast you’re supposed to move, so you pick a moderately high speed you hope will be enough for the handler, but not enough to tire you too soon. It turns out quite right, because at the end of the last lap Rumlow orders you to take another ten.

You run.

Ten laps, twenty, fifty, a hundred. You should start getting tired, but instead each move begins to be incredibly uncomfortable, the pressure in your bladder growing harder to bear with every step.

You finish the assigned distance and run back to your handlers, already looking towards the trashcan and your bucket.

Only the bucket is gone.

You close your eyes and look again, but it’s still not there. You realize you’re staring at the empty space next to the trashcan when Rumlow slaps you across the face.

“Keep your focus, _soldier_!”

You look back at him. “I’m sorry, sir.”

He slaps you again.

“I didn’t order you to speak. Now drink this.”

You watch his smile broaden as he looks at you, undoubtedly aware of what you’re going through. So there must be a reason. Self-control again. You trust he knows what he’s doing and drink another bottle of water.

“Five laps. Go.”

You’re in the middle of the third one when he beckons you back. You come quickly, hoping for a relief from the pain, but you still can’t see the bucket anywhere around.

“Stand still,” he orders and you freeze where you are, trying to calm down your breathing. Rumlow circles you and somehow his presence sends shivers down your spine. This doesn’t help your already moaning bladder, but you know better than to move away or ask about the bucket.

Thankfully, he doesn’t touch you. It might be because you’re quite sweaty at this point; the t-shirt and the sweatpants cling to your body, your hair is wet and the metal arm feels heavier than it should. No surprise, though, the weather is merciless and the sun keeps shining; there’s not a single cloud in the sky.

You know you should be thirsty, but somehow your body doesn’t even register the dryness in your mouth as uncomfortable. Still, Rumlow produces another bottle.

“Drink.”

You drink, feeling like you may explode any time now. You’re almost sure this new share of water will just stay in your stomach because it’ll have nowhere else to go. It hurts to keep it all inside.

“Strip.” The order comes as a surprise, so you just stand for a while, processing the idea behind the word. Rumlow backhands you for delay. “I said: strip.” You look into his eyes for only a brief second, but it’s enough to see something really scary in them.

You take off your shirt, kick off your shoes. You hesitate before removing your pants, but not too long. Then, you wait for another order. Rumlow only clears his throat, louder than necessary.

You close your eyes and obediently slip out of your underpants.

The handler circles you again and you expect him to touch you, but he only kicks your clothes aside.

“Now run. Ten laps for the beginning. Go.”

You suppress a moan and jog toward the track, desperately trying to ignore the pressure that makes it almost impossible to move. You feel awkward and clumsy, and while it was you against the task before, you feel like the focus of the strain has shifted to you against your own body. Running itself is not the problem; you could run fifty miles without even thinking to complain, if only you could empty that damn bladder.

It hurts to move at all, but you grit your teeth and run on. The track seems longer with every lap, or maybe it’s just time slowing down and stretching so you have to run more than normally.

You finish the tenth lap and return to your handler. You can feel horror rising in your chest, threatening to strangle you, as he takes another bottle of water, but he drinks from it himself, then pours the rest on your head.

“Another lap, soldier, but this time you’ll be running backwards. Go.”

You slowly make your way back on the track, twisting your upper body to control the direction of your movement. Backward movement is something you’ve been practicing for long. It’s not very useful during your missions, but it’s a good exercise for the muscles and some diversity in your training schedules.

Right now, however, it makes controlling your body much more difficult than usual. When you ran forwards, you could easily focus on defying your body’s needs, but the new exercise makes you pay more attention to coordination and space. Not to mention the more unnatural movement that only adds up to the tension.

Somehow you manage to complete the lap, but before you reach your handlers (still moving backwards, obviously), you hear them laugh and stop for a second and your bladder almost accomplishes its goal. They must be laughing at you, because what else is there around here that could possibly elicit such a reaction?

You shudder, but manage to gulp down the lump in your throat and keep moving. Luckily, the handlers didn’t pay enough attention (or simply didn’t care?) to notice your brief pause and punish you for it.

They don’t laugh openly when you stand before them, but the little smiles on their faces are a perfect definition of _wicked_ , their eyes narrow and amused. Rumlow quickly regains his composure and turns his face to stone again, with just a suggestion of a merry spark at the bottom of his pupils.

Your bucket is still nowhere to be seen.

“Now you run forwards again. Run the way I choose and until I tell you to stop. Just regular jog first. Go.”

You comply and jog, your body beginning to tremble from the strain. You don’t know if you like the leisurely pace of the run. It might be easier to control yourself this way, but it also gives you more time to think about the fact that you have to.

You’re halfway through the second lap when you hear Rumlow shout: “Soldier! High knee skips! Go!”

There’s something terrifying about this exercise and you’re almost sure you can’t take just that much, but you obey. Each knee goes as high as you can lift it without disrupting the pace, without slowing down. After all, you weren’t allowed to change the pace, so it’s best to assume you are to keep it.

The pressure in your bladder is unbearable. You realize there are tears in your eyes when your vision gets blurry, and it only makes things worse. You’re not supposed to cry, not out in the open, not during such an easy task. They sometimes pretend not to notice your tears when punishment would make no difference to you, but here? Now? You’ll be in real trouble if they see them.

You try to blink them away and press your lips together in an attempt to control yet another uncontrollable response of your body. You can’t just wipe them with your hand without drawing their attention. You only hope the sweat will provide enough camouflage for the tears, at least for now, at least from the distance.

It apparently does, because Rumlow only reminds you to lift your knees higher when they stop reaching a certain level. Then, there’s another explosion of laughter from where the handlers are sitting.

You turn your head and glimpse one of them holding your bucket. Salvation, please! Let it be the end!

He approaches the track and as you draw closer, you realize the bucket looks like it’s heavy in his hand. You’re sure you could easily lift it with your metal arm, if only you were allowed to touch it, if only you were allowed to…

He swings the bucket as you pass him and water splashes at you. You stagger back, surprised by the sudden attack, unsure how to react. The new amount of liquid dripping from your body is distracting, but somehow you’re still winning the fight. You don’t want to be punished for pissing yourself.

Given the circumstances, you could maybe try to let slip just a few drops to ease the pressure at least a little, but then, you’re pretty sure it would end up as a disaster and you wouldn’t be able to stop it. The sweat managed to hide a few tears, but there’s no way it can hide a bladderful of urine.

It takes a moment to realize you stopped running. The handler grabs you by the hair and pulls your head backwards, his face only inches away.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he whispers. His breath feels hot and painful on your skin. You grimace, but know better than to fight him. “A little bit of water spooked you so much you can’t move?”

You should apologize for your misbehavior, but you weren’t allowed to speak. You know you’ll be punished, but the thought gets pushed to the back of your mind. You have more pressing matters to deal with at the moment.

“This will hurt, you know. Now go back to running.” He lets go and you take off immediately, driven by fear more than obedience. The longer you refuse to do what they want, the more severe the punishment will be. So you run again, lifting your knees high, but Rumlow stops you after a few seconds.

“Enough running, soldier! Jump now, jump around the track!”

You want to die, but you grit your teeth once again and jump. It’s bad, much worse than running, and it’s painfully slow. And the handlers can’t stop laughing. Rumlow breaks into a frantic cough after you complete the first lap, but the remaining two laugh so loud it’s hard to even focus on jumping.

At the beginning of the third lap, Rumlow comes over and puts the bucket on your head. You can’t see anything and you only vaguely know where you’re heading, but you just the let the thing hit you with each jump. It’s funny and elicits even more laughter from the handlers, but it’s not really painful. Not physically, at least.

The pressure in your bladder is so bad you don’t even have the strength for frustration. You don’t care about the laughter anymore, you don’t care about anything. You just want it to be over.

And yet Rumlow refuses to end the training session. You cover another two laps until he allows you to remove the bucket. So now at least you see where you jump. That doesn’t ease the pressure, though.

You start considering simply giving up and succumbing to whatever punishment the handlers will come up with when Rumlow calls you back. You jump to him eagerly.

“Sit down,” he says, and you drop to the ground. He walks away, but you don’t pay too much attention. He didn’t tell you to follow him, so you just sit in the grass, hoping your body won’t betray you now, at what looks like the final stage of the ordeal.

But something makes you look at the two handlers whose names you don’t even know and you certainly don’t like what’s etched in their faces. It dawns on your as your ears register the sound your body wouldn’t miss in its current state. You turn your head to look at Rumlow and freeze in horror.

The handler casually walks around the training ground and pisses, watching you intently with a wry grin on his face.

You sink to the ground, unable to control yourself anymore. The grass gets wet and warm, and the other two handlers break into laughter. Somehow the bliss in your bladder feels like pain. Your body begins to tremble and your breath comes in ragged sobs, as the weight of helplessness bends your shoulders and forces your head under your arms.

“Get up.”

You jump to your feet and face Rumlow, who assumes a very sad face and shakes his head in disapproval. It sends shivers down your spine. There’s something really creepy about him, something that makes you drop to your knees, still sobbing.

The smile he gives you is ugly and you expect to be punished for disobedience, but he only repeats his last order and you comply.

“Remember what I told you at the beginning? That we couldn’t afford to ruin the training area? Well, it seems we failed and someone will have to clean it up. Down.”

You lower yourself to your hands and knees.

“Lick it off.”

Unrestrained tears stream down your face as you set to work. Your stomach rebels against the idea and for once you’re glad you haven’t eaten for longer than you would like. At least there’s nothing you can throw up and the handlers don’t seem to care about the drool as long as you keep licking the piss off the ground.

They laugh again and for a moment you feel like there should be something waking up inside of you, some kind of feeling or reaction, but you have no idea where to look for it, so you just suppress the sensation. It wouldn’t change anything, in fact, it might only make the whole task much worse and much more painful. That doesn’t sound like something you’d like to experience, so you simply try to proceed without a thought. There’s just you, your whole existence shrunk down to your mouth, the grass and the salty liquid in between.

Until Rumlow kneels down next to you and lays his hand on your back. You pause and look up at him, afraid to see disappointment in his eyes.

“Don’t be so… emotionless, soldier. I know you like it. Let it show. Show me how much you enjoy this task,” he says, gently tracing the line of your shoulder blade.

It takes you a while to process the order, but once you do, there are more tears than your eyes can hold and your vision gets blurry again. He doesn’t comment on you crying, so you press your face to the ground and slowly, haltingly nudge the grass with your nose for a moment. You risk a sideways glance and the handler – he looks pleased, so you continue. You lick every culm as slowly as you can, as if you were savoring every drop of your piss like a wine connoisseur tasting the finest Chardonnay in his life.

The uglier the smile on Rumlow’s face, the further you are from being punished. The smile is now getting uglier with every inch of grass that you lick, so you don’t stop until you chance upon a small wooden stick. It’s also covered with piss and you hesitate only for a brief second. You bravely ignore the new waterfall of tears and press the stick against your lips, parting them only enough to stick out your tongue. You stop before you touch the thing and glance at Rumlow again.

His eyes are fixed on you, his smile really ugly, his muscles tense, his breath somehow shallower than before. He likes what you’re doing, so you let the tip of your tongue touch the stick, barely brushing it. Then, ever so slowly, you close your mouth on the stick and suck in all the piss on it.

Rumlow nods in approval. “Go on.”

You bite the stick and munch until it breaks in two. The two handlers standing at some distance talk to each other in hushed voices, but you can’t make out the words. You resume licking the grass, with no hurry at first, then faster and faster, desperately trying to make it look like desire and not an attempt to finish the task as soon as possible.

It seems good enough for Rumlow, because he makes no comments, just watches, then redirects you toward the area covered in his piss. You thought it’d be much worse, but this time your eyes are dry and you crawl across the yard, methodically licking the grass, not sure if you’re licking the exact right place, but not daring to hesitate either. The handler once tells you to roll in the grass, and you roll in his piss the way dogs roll in smelly things.

Then it’s over. Rumlow calls you back and puts a hand on your shoulder, then pushes you down on your knees. You watch as he gathers your clothes and throws them away, while one of the other handlers stuffs them into some bag.

He casually walks back to you and unzips his fly. You obediently open your mouth before he tells you to and wait for him to come closer. He never does, just stays where he is for a moment, contemplating something, then redirects his attention back to you.

“Oh, can’t wait for it, I guess? Good. Such a good boy. You stopped running today and I should punish you, but I feel more like rewarding you for the job with cleaning the yard. And since you liked it so much… Open that mouth a little wider. Yes, stick out your tongue, I want to see it. Good.”

And, just like that, he pisses straight into your mouth. You flinch instinctively as the spout connects with your tongue, but you quickly make up for the mistake, leaning forward and catching and drinking as much as you can.

Rumlow looks pleased when he zips up. He pats you on the head and claims he’s done for today. He leads you back to your cell and leaves.

You curl into a ball on the rug and only then realize how exhausted you are, somehow not only physically. You want to roll onto your back, but your muscles refuse to cooperate. You give up after a few attempts and just lie where you collapsed until you drift off to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for being so bad at updating, all I can say is I was a little busy lately.
> 
> So here, have some Bucky and more food-related self-control training. Enjoy the pain! :D

You wake up to the door creaking open and quickly sit up at the sight of your handler. You’re not sure how long you slept, but you’re incredibly hungry, and the handler has brought food with him. An entire plate of spaghetti whose very smell makes your mouth water.

He notices the way you’re looking at the meal and sets it aside on the floor.

“You’d love to eat this, wouldn’t you, now?”

You know better than to answer. Because of course you’d kill for that bowl of pasta and he’s well aware of that, but if you are to get any kind of food, you have to earn it, you have to work hard and please him enough to let you have some. You await his first order.

“On your hands and knees. Good. Now hold this.”

You grit your teeth for a fraction of second before you gently close your jaws around the sausage he produced.

“Head down. Hold still.”

He places some kind of fabric on your back. It slides and tickles as he adjusts its position, but when he’s done, it hangs on both your sides. You’re not quite sure what he’s up to until he puts the bowl of spaghetti on your back, flips your bucket upside down and sits on it next to you, his knees almost touching you.

Then he starts eating. Just like that, chewing on the spaghetti and sucking it in louder than required.

The sausage in your mouth makes it all even worse and it’s only seconds later that you drool all over, the damn thing dripping from the sausage on the floor and onto your hands. You’re so desperate to stop yourself from actually biting the sausage that you begin to tremble just a little.

Your heart stops for a moment when the handler lifts the plate with his food. He noticed your reaction and it pissed him off. He kicks you hard in the stomach and tears well up in your eyes, but somehow the sausage remains unspoiled.

Then the plate is back on you and the handler keeps eating.

“It’s delicious, you know? Do they ever feed you with this stuff? They should, I’m sure you’d love it.”

Your stomach rumbles in response and you hear the handler smirk. He puts a hand on the back of your neck and scratches you gently, leaning forward. You smell the food in his breath.

“They wouldn’t know if I gave you some, would they?” His voice is barely audible, but it still makes you shudder. There’s something terrifying in the idea of breaking the rules and acquiring your food illegally, without earning it with obedience and physical effort. And yet you can’t deny it sounds really tempting to eat something just so delicious. You try to steal a glance at him without moving your head too much, but he notices and slides his hands toward your throat.

You expect him to grab you, expect choking and fighting for air and stillness of the body, but all you get is a single finger moving up and down your throat, barely brushing your skin and yet disturbing and really hard to ignore.

“Drop it,” he says and catches the sausage mid-air as you let it go.

He combs your hair with his fingers, then runs a hand down your chest and rubs your stomach in slow circles. It’s easier not to move without the sausage and you just grit your teeth and close your eyes, waiting for him to stop.

He doesn’t.

He uses his other hand, too, tickling the back of your knee, and you almost throw the bowl off your back as you suppress the urge to jump to your feet. The handler makes a noncommittal sound and simply continues, making his touch ever gentler and more extensive. The first hand circles between your chest and ribs and the other shuffles from ankle to thigh and back.

You hold still despite all your muscles screaming from the effort. There are more tears in your eyes, but you don’t let them fall, trying to gulp them down along with your shame and your failure.

And then both hands are gone.

You open your eyes and stare at the handler, almost in disbelief. Holding a single noodle in both hands, he puts in between your teeth.

“Hold it.”

The thing is so small you have to really pay attention not to bite it in two without realizing it, not to break it with your lips, let alone your teeth.

The handler resumes his meal, still making those terrible noises of someone enjoying their food. He pauses for a second, then reaches down and smears the sauce on your lips. You almost taste the tomatoes and the spices and it somehow hurts to refrain from trying to lick it, but you’re really hungry and you really want to eat today, so you fight it with all the willpower you can summon.

And it’s hell. Time seems to be gradually slowing down with every passing second, everything feels like you’re being devoured from the inside, like your body might collapse on itself.

It’s got to be ages until the handler finally gulps down the last bite of his meal and puts the empty plate in front of you. He removes the tablecloth from your back and folds it neatly before tossing it on the floor.

Then he casually sits on you and if not for the metal arm, you’re sure you would break under his weight. The last training session, the sleep deprivation and hunger are finally taking their toll on you. You won’t hold for long now, somehow you feel it in your bones.

The handler lays his hands on your shoulders and starts rubbing them. The touch is soft and tender at first, almost tickling, like flies walking all over your skin, but it gets fiercer and more painful, the handler’s fingers digging hard into your muscles.

You shift as much of your weight to the metal arm as you dare and focus on not biting down on the noodle. It must go well enough, because the handler stops touching you, he even stands up. Your body begins to relax when the handler puts one heavy-booted foot on you, and then the other. You force your muscles to tense and freeze, because if they don’t, you’ll be lying flat on the floor in less than half a second.

They obey and things go well until the handler starts bouncing and jumping. You have no idea how you manage to endure this without earning a severe punishment, but you do. The handler hops off and the noodle is still fine, if a little slobbery.

“Drop it,” he says and you finally spit the noodle out, right onto the empty plate. “Relax.”

You sit down cautiously, watching the handler all the time. You wouldn’t let yourself simply drop to the ground, making your weakness more clear than necessary. You don’t dare look at the noodle in front of you; the handler knows well enough how hungry you are, he’s been the only person feeding you for the past few weeks. You trust him not to starve you, but that doesn’t mean he can’t push you to your limits. You feel like that line is closer than you would like.

He crouches down beside you and methodically strokes your hair, then runs his fingers along your spine. You force yourself to stay calm and you’re not sure if the success is so easy because of exhaustion or because you’re finally becoming less sensitive to his touch.

His face is way too close to you for comfort, but it betrays no emotion. It strikes you how different he is from Rumlow, who was so easy to read even though he trained you for the first time. Rumlow’s expression and his sick smile or lack of thereof was a clear clue about his opinion on your behavior.

With this handler – what is his name even? – things are more tricky. He’s not that much of an open book. Sure, there are times when his expression reflects his thoughts, there are times when he seems to react in some way, but most of the time his face is a mask, a smooth surface of pure, expressionless professionalism. He’s always focused on his task, always paying attention to details. Always ready to punish or reward you, always reacting immediately.

And there have been no corrections and no punishments from him today. You’re doing fine. You’re so damn hungry you feel like your stomach could actually, literally implode, but the only way to earn food is to continue being good.

So you try to clear your mind and relax under his touch, ignoring the pain in your muscles. He rubs your back and shoulders for so long that you begin to feel a new kind of pain in them, but somehow this one is positive, it’s dangerously close to bliss. Then, his hands are gentle again, simply sliding on the surface of your skin, and you’re surprised to discover you’re melting into his touch.

This is when he reaches down and puts a hand on your thigh. The other one is still making soothing circles on your back, but you still tense, suppressing a single sob that almost escapes your lips.

Of course, you should have known things were too easy and you let him catch you unawares. You wait for him to reach further, hoping you can stop tears from falling at least until then, hoping you don’t start shaking all over, because this would definitely piss him off.

Yet the handler removes his hands from you and stands up. You look up, surprised, trying to read his face and failing, obviously.

“Lean forward, hands behind your back.”

You slowly press your forehead against the cold floor and fold your hands over your back. He binds them together, then presses something to your metal arm and the thing goes limp.

It’s an unfamiliar, somehow sickening feeling of total vulnerability, and you start to wonder if, after all, the handler’s going to live up to your fearful expectations, when he tells you to relax again. You sit up and notice a small toy in front of you. It looks like something in between a pyramid and a snowman. It’s also thick.

Your world goes spinning for a moment as a new surge of fear clutches your heart and your whole body tenses at the realization of what this must be. And you were afraid of a stupid hand?

You start sobbing uncontrollably, your chest and shoulders heaving with each ragged breath, tears running down your face like a heavy rain.

You don’t want this; you desperately wish you could go back to any of the previous stages of this session, you’d give in to every kind of touch from the handler. You beg him with your eyes, because you wouldn’t dare speak without permission, but you’re pretty sure this is something you can’t take. Not after such a day, not after such a night.

You cry openly, not even attempting to stay quiet. This is all too much, you’re too damn tired, too starved, too broken at this point.

The handler is merciful, he doesn’t punish you for this pathetic outburst, he doesn’t even laugh at you.

“I’ll leave you with this thing. Eat it.”

And then you’re alone, confused and still shaky, although the tears stopped flowing and your breath gradually calms down.

You lean toward the weird object and then it dawns on you it’s empty inside – or, rather, it has a hole that’s filled with some kind of food, some mash that can be easily put inside and stay there.

You lick off the first layer of food, then you start digging, using your tongue like a spade. You’re not sure what the food is made of, but you don’t care. You just eat, following the little toy on your knees until you press it into the corner of the cell and try to reach as much of its content as you can.

It gets difficult when you realize the toy is too deep for you to reach even half of what’s in it. Of course, it would be easy if you could use your hands, or even one hand, or maybe just one finger. But that’s impossible.

You look around, but of course there’s nothing you could use to get the food out of the toy. The handler took everything with him, he wouldn’t leave you with a fork or a spoon just like that.

Hunger and frustration finally force you to kick the thing. It rebounds off the wall and a little chunk of the mush falls out of it. You drop to your knees and gulp down the food, then move to kick the toy again. It takes some time and effort, but you manage to eat everything. There wasn’t too much of it and you’re still hungry as hell, but it was something. With your stomach a little less empty, you lie flat on the floor, trying to find a relatively comfortable position.

You can’t.

The unresponsive metal arm, though bound securely in one place, feels odd, somehow alien. You’ve long grown used to the initial discomfort of having it at all, you’ve even learned to sleep on your left side. But right now the arm hangs as a heavy load, disrupting your balance even as you lie on your stomach.

You shift and roll from side to side until the day’s efforts catch up with you and you’re too tired to move anymore.

You drift off and this time, miraculously, they let you sleep through the night.


End file.
